The interior of the barn has undergone no grand revisions in the short time that he has occupied it; in fact, it remains largely the same.
There are only a few noticeable differences: A large swath of broken straw has been cleared from the cement, pushed to the sides to make room for the white Ford Econoline van that now dominates the open space. Against the far wall, on the opposite side from the sliding door, a large wooden table has been erected. A myriad of tools and materials can be found on the rough surface, patiently awaiting his ministrations.
In addition to the materials purchased at Watters’s Electrical Supply, Vanderveen has managed to find a portable workstation with a lamp and optical magnification, which will be crucial for the more delicate parts of the job. The workstation sits on top of the table next to a soldering gun, rated at 20 watts, accompanied by two ounces of Antex solid wire flux.
Beside the soldering iron rests a digital ammeter and 30 feet of pliable conduit. All of this equipment combined would be useless without the pair of Verizon cell phones that Vanderveen has purchased on the outskirts of Richmond, along with three months of nationwide service. He will not need more than a few weeks from the phones, but to deviate from the plan is to attract notice, to attract attention . . .
Sitting in his hard wooden chair, listening to the gentle patter of rain on the roof overhead, Vanderveen’s mind is far away as his hands move with speed and confidence. Far from the intricacies of solder joints, far from the strained relationships between voltage, current, and resistance through a circuit.
He is troubled by the fact that the money was not routed directly to him. They could have easily routed it through the Caymans instead of their own intermediary. It would have cut out a great deal of unnecessary risk, although the woman has done well so far in making the funds readily accessible.
For the most part, though, his mind is occupied by the other woman, the realtor.
On reflection, he can concede that it was a mistake. Deep inside, a small voice tells him that he is making a great many mistakes these days. A sweaty afternoon spent in the straw of the barn was not worth even the slightest chance of detection. By giving her what she wanted, by easing the quiet desperation, he had granted her access.
Access to him, and access to what he is doing. Now, it was not in-conceivable that she might choose to stop by unannounced.
He was grateful for the lock on the sliding door. At the same time, he recognized that it was a temporary impediment.
He thought that he was weak because, before Washington and Mashhad, he had spent two weeks with Sadr’s advisors in Najaf, and before that, seventeen weeks in the fear-drenched killing grounds of Ramallah. If he had been trusted in those places, he would have been given a woman. As it was, he was tolerated but not accepted.
He was only recognized later, when he was gone, when he was no longer a danger to the respective organizations.
After all that time, five months of forced abstinence, the night with the realtor was like salve on an open wound.
And now it was a serious threat to his freedom and his life. Afterward, with her naked form wrapped around him in the soft straw of the barn, she had spoken with undisguised contempt of her husband. He had recognized a need in her, a need that would not be satisfied at home.
If he could satisfy that need, as he had done once before, then the woman was a threat to his freedom and his life.
Vanderveen pushed those thoughts aside. It was done, and he could not change it. If it was a weakness, to need a woman, then it was a weakness he thought he could live with.
The copper wire turned in his hands. Back to the task at hand, he ran through the schematics in his mind. It would begin at the power source, running from the battery to the terminals on the switch. The battery would not be hooked up until the last minute, though. He still had to determine how long the circuit could remain closed before the battery was drained of power and unable to provide the requisite 12 volts. That would come later.
From the switch, the two-cable copper wire would run out to the exposed circuitry of one of the cell phones, and then on to the number 6 blasting caps.
For the moment, the copper wire hung limp over the side of the wooden table.
Vanderveen surveyed his equipment with satisfaction. The crates that had been retrieved from the Norfolk Terminals were well hidden beneath the straw in the barn, but the inquisitive mind of the realtor was always in his thoughts, as was the scheming mind of his former commanding officer.
Kealey . . . Vanderveen did not often think of him. He had discovered, through a discreet inquiry, that the man had been present at the Kennedy-Warren just before it blew. How much more convenient it would have been if Kealey had died in the explosion, he mused.
Vanderveen did not think it likely that his old friend posed a serious threat to his plans.
All the same, he knew that the problem of his former commander’s involvement would have to be addressed. His work could not be compromised because his work, at any given moment, had the unlimited potential to instill fear, to feed the paranoia that was spreading like a plague throughout the American public.
When the towers crumbled on 9/11, it was as if he had been reborn.
The weeks after the attacks had seen blame thrown toward every corner of the globe, but it was bin Laden and his organization that received the brunt of it. And when it was narrowed down, when it was a certainty, only then had Vanderveen sought to expand his own horizons.
At the time of greatest danger, when new volunteers were considered with the greatest unease, Vanderveen had slipped effortlessly into the organization, because the hatred that he felt toward his adopted country could not be feigned, and the hatred was not satiated by the death of three thousand Americans.
Ever so gently, he touched the grounded tip of the soldering iron to the mechanical joint on the single-pole switch. In its final state, the two-wire annunciator cable would form a parallel circuit. It would be necessary to check the current moving over each detonator, because he knew that a single cap would require between 2 and 10 amperes to function correctly. The voltage would not be a concern, as that was the only common parameter in the circuit he had devised.
He had decided on four detonators; only one cap was actually required, but he would not risk the chance of a misfire.
He worked into the early-morning hours, his hands moving steadily, the device taking shape. Six months ago, it was a dream.
Four months ago, the glimmer of an idea. Two months, a working plan. Now it was a certainty. The wire was warm beneath his fingers, running in its predetermined path until Vanderveen decided otherwise. It was his creation, and he had little doubt that it would function as intended. Still, there were days to go, and no limit to what might go wrong.
North was the first to leave the parking lot, his mud-spattered 4Runner bouncing out onto Mill Road, followed soon thereafter by a spirited squeal of rubber as he took the sharp right turn onto Eisenhower Avenue. Ryan turned the key in the ignition as soon as Naomi clambered into the passenger seat. Then they were pulling out of the lot in another squeal of tires, Ryan making full use of the car’s six gears as the engine roared in approval. First he headed south, navigating his way down Huntington until it merged with Route 1. Then he pushed the vehicle back up to the Jefferson Davis Memorial Highway, which he followed for several miles as he threaded his way back into Washington.
“What the hell was that all about, Ryan?” She was turned in her seat to face him, the anger glowing in her eyes and cheeks.
“We needed results, Naomi. The way you had it planned wasn’t going to work—”